


The Coldest Story Ever Told

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 16:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're fucking cold and fucking miserable, but really, it actually <em>isn't </em>Spencer's fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coldest Story Ever Told

**TITLE:** The Coldest Story Ever Told  
**WORD COUNT:** 3,500-ish  
**RATING:** PG13  
**SUMMARY: **They're fucking cold and fucking miserable, but really, it actually _isn't _Spencer's fault.  
**A**/**N:** Warnings for rampant fluff in an h/c fic, plot contrivances, and also I know less than nothing about hypothermia, so. *epic handwave* I apologize for...everything.

~

Brendon huddles deeper into his hoodie and his quilt, glaring at Spencer from across the room.

"This is all your fault, I just want to make that clear," he says, shivering. He says it again, just because he almost never gets to be one to say that, much less to say it to _Spencer._ "This. Is. All. Your. Fault."

Spencer glares back, which loses some of its fearsome effect, considering that most of the accompanying scowl is hidden deep within the folds of the fuzzy yellow fleece lap blanket he has wrapped around his shoulders and up over his head. He mutters something dark-sounding in Brendon's general direction, but his voice is muffled, and Brendon doesn't think his heart is really in it anyway, so Brendon doesn't catch a word.

"This will cheer you up, Brendon," Brendon parrots mockingly, ignoring whatever Spencer is trying to say. "No, really! We can build snowmen and write music and play video games and drink beer! It'll be _awesome, _and you won't think of Sarah even a _little bit—_"

Spencer's blanket wriggles threateningly, and then he tugs on something from somewhere inside it and manages to rearrange things until his nose and mouth are free. "You told me yourself you're fine about Sarah, asshole, don't try to bring her into this just to make a point—"

"Sarah is warm_,_" Brendon says peevishly. "If Sarah was here right now, we would be naked and we would be _warm—_"

"No, you wouldn't_,"_ Spencer says snidely, "because Sarah _dumped you._"

Brendon sets his jaw. "Fuck you," he says evenly.

"Fuck _you_, I was trying to do something _nice,_" snaps Spencer.

Brendon opens his mouth to retort, but then closes it again, feeling kind of shitty. It's true. Spencer _was _trying to do something nice. Trying to do something really awesome, actually, the way he's been really awesome since the entire stupid breakup went down. A week in Spencer's uncle's little Canadian vacation cottage had sounded amazing even to Brendon, it's not like he'd _argued _about it. And really, it was pretty fucking cool until the heater stopped working and the blizzard struck.

They're not close enough to town to be able to walk it without dying, even if they could actually see more than six inches in front of their faces. Their cellphones don't pick up a signal out here, and there's no landline to be seen. They have blankets, but only the ones from the single queen-sized bed, and they have clothes, but only the ones they actually brought with them, which were mostly t-shirts and boxer shorts and one "outside" outfit each—the one lesson they learned from their last cabin experience was that nobody ever puts actual clothes on anyway_, _and that was a lot of wasted luggage space that could have been better used for more DVDs and video games.

They're fucking cold and fucking miserable, but really, it actually _isn't _Spencer's fault.

Brendon sighs heavily, unwraps the small blanket cocoon he's built around his body, and shuffles his way across the room to Spencer's couch. "Lemme in," he says, poking at Spencer's own cocoon, which is sort of precariously constructed of two bedsheets and the lap blanket.

Spencer scowls skeptically at him, but pushes to his feet and unwraps himself slowly. Brendon nudges him back onto the couch and sits down beside him, pushing in close and layering both sheets and the lap blanket over their legs and feet, and then wrapping the quilt from the bed around their heads and shoulders and arms. Spencer helps him tuck them in, and they sit in awkward silence.

The storm knocked the power out quite awhile ago. There's a fireplace, but no wood anywhere to build one, and they already went through all the booze.

"Truth or dare," says Brendon, after awhile.

Spencer snorts. "No. What are we, eleven?"

"Fine," Brendon returns patiently. "Never have I ever—"

"We don't have anything to drink, Brendon," Spencer says tiredly.

Brendon grits his teeth. "I found a trunk in Grandmother's attic, and—"

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm _bored!"_ Brendon bursts out. "I'm bored and I'm fucking cold, and you are—there is something wrong with you, physically. You have the opposite of body heat, okay. You have. Like. You're a _vacuum _of body heat, and you're stealing all of _mine _now—"

"What, you think _you _have body heat to steal? Seriously, I might as well be sitting next to a fucking ice cube—"

"Well, then don't sit by me!"

"_You _came over here to sit by _me!"_ Spencer huffs. "I liked it just fine when you were all the way across the room, thank you very much!"

"FINE."

Brendon pushes to his feet, abandoning all of the blankets including the quilt he'd had with him before. He throws himself on the opposite couch in a deliberate sprawl, refusing to acknowledge that his little temper tantrum was an epically bad idea and he's known it since he pushed the blankets away.

"Brendon."

Brendon stares intently at the wall, and refuses to answer.

"_Brendon._ Take a fucking blanket, you moron."

Brendon closes his eyes, throws his arm up over his face, and tries to think warm thoughts. Sunny beaches. Roaring fires. Volcanoes.

"Fine. Whatever, you're such a fucking child. It's not going to be my fault when you die of hypothermia, I don't even give a fuck."

"Okay, _Ryan,_" Brendon says nastily, and then feels kind of bad again when Spencer goes stonily silent.

Worst. Vacation. _Ever._

~

"Hey. _Hey._"

Brendon blinks. He was sleeping, maybe—it's hard to tell. He's cold and sluggish and everything is dark, and he can't feel his fingers or his feet, but the tip of his nose is stinging. Everything is kind of confusing for a minute.

"Fuck."

That's Spencer's voice, and Brendon almost smiles except his cheeks kind of hurt too, now that he's actually thinking of it, and oh, hey. That's right. Spencer's actually a dick and Brendon hates him. He remembers now.

"Brendon, wake _up._" Spencer sounds kind of freaked-out. Brendon can't really make out his face in the dark. "Shit, we fell asleep, how did you fall _asleep? _Fuck, you're so frozen. Shit, shit."

Spencer rubs frantically at Brendon's fingers, which he can see more than he can feel, and Brendon liked it better when he was sleeping. He didn't so much notice the cold then.

"This is so—okay, fuck," and then Spencer disappears for a second and throws all of the blankets on the floor.

"Hey," says Brendon, his voice still sleep-rough and croaky.

"Thank god you're awake, at least," Spencer mutters, and Brendon looks up and Spencer is...um.

Well, he would appear to be getting naked.

"I've had this daydream before," Brendon tells him thoughtfully. "But usually I'm warmer than this at the time, and have full use of my hands."

Spencer freezes in place, giving Brendon a startled look, and then shakes it off and finishes undressing. Then he starts in on _Brendon's _clothes.

"Hot," Brendon murmurs, and then laughs a little. Hot. Blizzard_. _He's hilarious. He feels kind of drunk. It's too bad they drank all the booze.

"I'm going to mock you forever," Spencer tells him, and then he's yanking Brendon's jeans off and Brendon gets pulled partway off the couch and almost falls on his ass.

"Watch it," he grumbles, and tries to help when Spencer goes for the zipper of his hoodie, but his fingers are clumsy and stupid, and they don't want to bend or something, it's weird. Spencer bats them away and does it himself, stripping Brendon naked with ruthless efficiency and then stretching out right on top of him, pulling the blankets from the floor up and wriggling around until they're totally covered.

This is all usually much sexier in Brendon's head, but he can roll with it. He tilts his face up, covering Spencer's mouth with his own, and blinks when Spencer jerks away, wide-eyed.

"What?" Brendon asks, confused.

"_What?"_ Spencer manages.

Brendon frowns. "You don't want to kiss me?"

"Brendon. You're—we're—we don't. Um. Are you—fuck, seriously, man, are you okay?"

"You took our clothes off," Brendon points out helpfully. "You. We're all naked, and you're laying on me."

"Because you're _frozen."_ Spencer's voice is strangled. Brendon wishes he could see more than just the whites of Spencer's eyes in the darkness. "It's—I had to, I mean, you're like. _Actually _frozen. It took forever to get you to wake up, I was fucking terrified, and—your hands are so cold, we must have slept for a couple of hours at least, and you didn't even have any _blankets, _you stubborn dick, and. And this is what you _do._ When somebody is frozen, I mean."

"Oh," says Brendon, crestfallen. "Sorry."

Spencer is quiet for a second. Then, "Don't. Don't worry about it."

Brendon closes his eyes. Spencer is a pleasant weight on top of him, and Brendon doesn't know if he'd say he's _warm _now, but he definitely feels less bitterly cold. He's still really tired, though, and kind of just wants to go to sleep.

"Hey, hey, stay awake," says Spencer, sounding all freaked-out again, and Brendon wants to, but he's, like. _Really _tired.

He drifts off in spite of himself.

~

The next time Brendon wakes up, it feels like he's on fire.

His fingers and feet are all vicious, stinging pins and needles, and he's seriously _sweltering _hot, and he makes this pained little noise before he can stop himself or even take stock of the situation.

"What? What?" comes Spencer's voice, really close to Brendon's ear, and Brendon kind of flaps his hands in a helpless gesture, twitching his feet around, and it _hurts, _it fucking _hurts—_

Spencer's hands close together over one of Brendon's, massaging vigorously, and Brendon whimpers.

"Hey," he hears Spencer mumble. "Hey, hey. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's okay. Shit."

It feels like it takes a million years for the pins and needles to go away, seriously. A _million years._ Spencer won't stop rubbing his hands and feet, even though it hurts like a _bitch, _and Brendon can't even focus enough to make him knock it the fuck off, and everything is sort of needle-sharp and vague and drifty all at once. Brendon tries to breathe, and the air is too thick—there's a blanket mostly over their heads, but when he manages to push his face out a little, the cold air hits his lungs and burns.

Everything is painful and confusing, and Brendon isn't sure if he's falling asleep or passing out, but whatever it is, he's grateful for it.

~

He wakes up grumpy and overheated. There's something incredibly heavy slumped over his chest, and he shoves irritably at it, mildly startled when it turns out to be Spencer.

"Hey," Spencer mumbles, jerking awake. "Hey. You okay?"

Brendon grimaces. "Hot," he mumbles back. "You're heavy, get off."

Spencer shifts to one side, and Brendon's eyebrows fly up as he realizes, "Um. Are we—?"

"Can you move your hands and feet? Wiggle your toes. Can you bend your fingers?"

"Spencer." Brendon brings his hands up and rubs at his face. He's sweaty and disgusting. "Why are we naked?"

Spencer stares. "You...don't remember?" he asks carefully.

Brendon mostly just has vague memories of being on fire. That must have been a fucked-up dream.

"You were freezing to death," Spencer tells him. "I had to—we fell asleep, you didn't have any blankets, and when I woke up you were, like. Frozen, seriously frozen. I took our clothes off so I could warm you up. You seriously don't remember this?"

Brendon blinks. He maybe remembers being really, really cold, and something about Spencer batting his hands away from his hoodie, but—"I think. Dude. You realize you don't have to get _actually _naked to do that, right? Like, I think we could have kept boxers on at least." He's blushing; he can feel the hot flush crawling over his already-overheated skin.

To his surprise, Spencer blushes, too. "I panicked," he admits. "I don't fucking know, okay, you were like a block of _ice._ Seriously, can you wiggle your toes?"

Brendon wiggles his toes. "Yeah. Uh. Everything in working order. Seriously, where are my shorts?"

Spencer opens his mouth, but then seems to change his mind. He pushes the blankets away and leans over the side of the couch, digging around until he comes back up with both of their boxers clutched in his hand. Brendon grabs gratefully at his.

They both stand up long enough to wriggle into their shorts, and Brendon grabs the rest of his clothes up off the floor. They're freezing cold, but it almost feels good against the heat of his skin right now. When he finishes zipping up his hoodie, he glances up to see Spencer already dressed, and watching Brendon closely.

"You. You really don't remember anything?" Spencer manages, oddly uncertain.

For one blinding second, Brendon wonders if they actually—but before he can even complete the thought, other, more fragmented memories start coming back. He said—and. Oh, fuck.

He _kissed _Spencer.

The memory of Spencer jerking away in alarm is enough to make Brendon want to sink through the fucking _floor, _seriously. He drops his eyes and turns away, sitting down to shove his feet into both of the pairs of socks he was wearing before, and takes a second to compose himself.

"Nope," he gets out eventually, hoping he sounds more casual than he feels. "Fuck, I'm starving."

Spencer's quiet for a second, and then says softly, "Okay. Yeah. Uh. Food, good idea."

Brendon doesn't look at Spencer once on the way into the kitchen.

~

The blizzard has stopped. It's still way the fuck below freezing, and the car is buried, and their coats and gloves are still inside it, but at least it's not actively snowing anymore, and they can, like. Maybe dig it out or something.

Spencer brought stuff to make s'mores in the fireplace, but then they didn't have a fire, so instead they eat graham crackers and chocolate bars and giant marshmallows, because the stove is electric and the only "real" food they brought is all freezer shit.

Neither of them mention the awkward naked come-on from last night.

They venture outside long enough to make their way to the detached garage in search of a snow shovel. They don't find one, but Brendon catches sight of something better.

"Spencer!" he shouts. "Spencer, come here!"

There's a fucking huge pile of logs against the back wall of the garage, partially hidden by a grill and a gigantic bag of charcoal.

Spencer looks like he doesn't know whether to be grateful or pissed off. "This would have come in fucking handy _last night,_" he says grimly.

"It'll come in handy now, too," Brendon points out, because if there's a snow shovel in here, they haven't found it yet. "Look, your family is expecting us in two days. Your uncle knows where to find us, they'll all have seen the weather anyway. When we don't show back up, somebody will come get us, okay? As long as we can use the fireplace, we can last a couple days, no problem. It'll be fine."

Spencer sighs, but it's all true, so it's not like he can argue.

They end up piling a bunch of wood awkwardly on a plastic sled with a long pull-rope, and dragging it back to the house in several loads. Brendon goes back for the grill and charcoal, even though Spencer insists they can cook just fine in the fireplace, but Brendon will not be swayed. While he's out there, he also manages to find a flashlight, and the batteries even still work, so he grabs that too and heads back to the cottage. Spencer meets him halfway, and helps him drag the sled without complaint.

~

The fire goes a long way toward warming the place up, and the warmer they get, the more their moods improve. When Spencer digs around for a pot to boil water in and manages to find a hidden bottle of whiskey, they get even better.

"Truth or dare," says Spencer, when they're full and happy and halfway to drunk, sprawled lazily on a big pile of blankets and pillows in front of the fire.

Brendon snorts, and takes a drink. "I think I prefer Grandmother's Attic."

"Come on," Spencer insists. "Truth or dare."

Brendon can feel his face heating up. No force on earth will make him choose truth tonight, and there's nothing they can dare each other into without risking death—who are they going to streak, after all? "Seriously, Spencer—"

"Do you remember?"

Brendon snaps his mouth shut, ducking his head as the heat in his face pretty much bursts into flame.

Apparently, that's all the answer Spencer needs. "You do. You totally remember."

"I was fucking delirious," Brendon manages, gritting his teeth. "Leave me alone, I didn't—"

"Brendon, seriously."

"What do you want me to say?" Brendon asks desperately. "I'm _sorry, _okay? I wasn't thinking straight, I thought—you know what I thought, I didn't mean to freak you out or whatever, I was out of my head. Okay? I'm _sorry._"

"I wasn't trying to—" Spencer breaks off, inhales slow and steady like he's frustrated. "Brendon. You were _frozen,_ okay? Like, at death's door or some shit. You were—I was—"

"I know that!" Brendon flaps a hand, and almost knocks over his drink. He picks it up instead, and downs half of what's left in one big gulp. He is definitely not drunk enough for this. "Jesus, can we just drop it? Seriously, I know what you were trying to do, it's fine—"

"Fuck it," says Spencer, and then he sets down his drink and rolls over until he's pressed all along Brendon's side. He hesitates, giving Brendon an uncertain look, and then says, "Was it only because you were delirious? Really?"

Brendon has no fucking idea what to think right now. He doesn't know what the right answer is, and his brain is racing so fast that he can't even seem to hold on to a sensible thought. "Spence."

"I don't want to—I mean. If. If you were really just...then I don't want to mess up," Spencer says. He looks weirdly vulnerable all of a sudden.

Brendon feels like his heart is going to race right out of his chest. "I don't want to mess up either," he says helplessly.

Spencer looks at Brendon's mouth. "We could try it," he says, and it isn't a question really, but it kind of sounds like one anyway.

"We." Brendon swallows. "Spence, you're kind of. Drunk."

"So?"

Brendon laughs. He feels maybe the slightest bit hysterical. "You don't actually kiss guys. Sober, I mean. So. This isn't really something—"

"Yeah. I don't really, like. Know what I'm doing or anything." Spencer shrugs a little. "But you kind of do, right? And. I want to try."

He's almost defiant now, and Brendon _wants, _a lot, but. "Seriously, Spencer. You're _drunk._"

"I'm not _that _drunk," Spencer argues. "I'm like. Buzzed. And this. This is why I got drunk, anyway. I keep—I keep thinking about it, and I wanted. Earlier, I mean. I wanted to, but I didn't know how, so I thought, you know, if I was drunk I would have the nerve." He pauses. "You _do _want to, right?"

Brendon stares at him, lost and stunned and kind of turned on, and he sort of feels like the world is turning upside down for a second, and then he just leans over and presses his mouth to Spencer's, gentle and slow.

Spencer holds really still the whole time, but when Brendon goes to pull away, Spencer makes a little sound of protest and pulls him back in, and he's the one to open his mouth over Brendon's and deepen the kiss into something more. Brendon groans a little into his mouth, startled, and Spencer groans back, and then everything is kind of vague and blurry for awhile and then somehow, Brendon is stretched out on his back and Spencer is sprawled on top of him, and they're both hard and kind of rocking together, and Brendon thinks, _how is this even real, _and then Spencer rocks against him again, just right, and Brendon stops thinking at all.

Spencer breaks away long enough to pant against Brendon's mouth, wide-eyed and kind of breathless. He says, "Fuck," like the answer to a question, and Brendon laughs helplessly, because that's not what Spencer means, but he feels amazing right now, and it's fucking funny.

"That's kind of an advanced lesson," he murmurs into Spencer's mouth, laughing again when Spencer rolls his eyes and bites down on Brendon's lower lip in retaliation. "Maybe we should just stick with this for now."

Spencer rocks his hips again, looking kind of smug when Brendon's breath catches, and slants his mouth over Brendon's for another long, slow, lazy kiss.

"This is good," he agrees, between kisses. "I'm good with this."

He shifts his hips, and Brendon's eyes roll back, and he lets his legs fall open a little wider so he can wrap one around the back of Spencer's, smiling against Spencer's lips when it makes them both gasp.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm good with this, too."

~

END

__   
**The Coldest Story Ever Told**   



End file.
